


Triage

by tenaya



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1997-05-01
Updated: 1997-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaya/pseuds/tenaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story takes place within the episodes of Comes a Horseman and Revelation 6:8.  When Kronos suddenly reappears in Methos' life, Methos struggles to save himself while choosing which of his friends he might also save.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triage

# TRIAGE

  


## by Tenaya

 _Triage is the practice of sorting people according to their need. There are those who will live no matter what happens, and those who will die no matter what happens. Emphasis is placed on those who will live_ only _if they receive attention._

#### The Past Tense

The agonized scream that rent the mild desert night was far different from the usual cries of terror that were the norm for the Horsemen's camp. This was a male voice; this was Kronos, the undisputed leader and ruler of all who lived there. The fearful howl carried on for an inhumanly long time, seemingly past what was physically possible. As it ended, an empty stillness settled, and all knew it was a hungry void that would soon be filled by blood and death. The pitiful slaves who served the camp muttered prayers to gods who had long since deserted them, pleading that they might be spared from the mayhem that was sure to follow.

Methos' eyes widened as he recognized the voice. Never before had he heard such pain coming from Kronos. No, it was always Kronos who brought forth that sound from others. He stood and walked a few steps until he could see out of his yurt. A vague figure dressed in ghostly white scrambled frantically out of Kronos' tent and through the sand, quickly disappearing over the rise of a dune.

So, Cassandra lived. She was free — for the moment. Earlier, Methos had sat quietly in his tent as the night had fallen, unmindful of the dirty, sweat–soaked clothes he still wore from a full day of riding and raiding, knowing her fate was beyond anything he could do for her. He had worked hard to ignore the pleas and the screams he knew to be hers as Kronos took his pleasure; it was a pleasure derived in large part from the knowledge that her cries were affecting Methos, forcing him to unwillingly submit to his leader by the very act of sitting alone in the quiet darkness and doing nothing.

Methos stared at the empty expanse of desert where Cassandra had vanished, glad she had escaped the pain and death that Kronos had planned for her. Her crime had been a capital offense, yet none of her own doing; it was Methos who had allowed himself the small luxury of caring, and worse, he had allowed Kronos to see there was something that could vie for the ancient Immortal's attention. Not only was Kronos territorial, he was also very competitive.

Kronos controlled everything in his camp, especially anything that might affect the loyalties in his band of four. If there was even a remote possibility an object could become valued above their bonds to each other, he ruthlessly destroyed it — usually in such a way as to make the lesson unforgettable.

Methos closed his eyes as he tried not to remember the terrorized screams of Saba, a pretty young woman who, once enslaved, had settled effortlessly into camp life. She had been eager to please, seeming to know what Methos wanted even before he did. She was the first Methos had noticed and grown casually fond of…and because of that, Kronos had taken great delight in encouraging Caspian to let his imagination run wild as she was slowly killed.

Distraught by her pain and bewildered by the needless cruelty of Caspian's torture, Methos had demanded that Kronos give the order to end her life quickly, mercifully. With a furious curse, Kronos had backhanded him, sending him staggering until he fell. With a quick leap, the enraged leader had pressed against Methos, his arm brutally crushing Methos' throat, preventing him from breathing. Kronos had leaned in close until their faces nearly touched. "The more you care, the more they will suffer, Brother! Remember this always: you belong to me and me alone!" Kronos had kissed him then, plunging his tongue into his mouth. Affronted, Methos had jerked his head to the side, refusing him. Kronos had glared down. Suddenly, there was a knife in his hand, and he had plunged the blade into Methos' heart. He had smiled coldly into Methos' shocked face and whispered, "Your heart beats at my command, dearest Brother." And then Kronos had laughed as Methos died, Saba's shrieks still echoing in Methos' ears.

Now, Methos turned and walked back to his bedding, slowly unbuckling the protective leathers he had worn all day. He shed them and his dirty, sweat–stained tunic, letting them fall to the ground, forgotten. Sitting on his bed of cushions and furs, he waited quietly for what he knew was to come, trying to prepare himself for what was needed if he was to survive.

He did not have long to wait.

Kronos raged into Methos' tent, swinging his sword in eager anticipation of blood. "Where is she?" he roared, not waiting for an answer as he raced past Methos, thrusting his sword into any lump that looked big enough to hide Cassandra. He swung away, slicing though the back of the yurt, checking to see if she had run outside. Not finding any trace of her, he limped back to Methos and stood in front of him, breathing heavily, his eyes filled with fury. With a quick twitch, he pressed the point of his weapon to the base of Methos' throat. "That bitch! Where have you hidden her?!"

Methos swallowed once. "She is not here, Brother," he said with a calm he did not feel.

Eyes narrowing, Kronos sneered. "You're lying. I can always tell when you are lying, _Brother_." He leaned closer. "Have you seen her?"

Methos was as still as the cold desert night. "I do not know where she is," he said softly, staring past his leader.

Eyes glinting, Kronos lifted the point of the weapon and let the cutting edge rest against Methos' throat. He tilted his head slightly and asked, his voice deceptively mild, "Do you challenge me, Methos?"

Real fear gripped Methos. Not daring to breathe, he forced himself to make eye contact and shook his head, a wordless denial of the accusation that could bring his immediate death.

* * * * *

Kronos smiled, pleased by the reaction. Suddenly he shoved Methos in the chest with the heel of his hand, knocking him flat. Climbing onto the bedding, he straddled the supine figure and let his eyes roam over the naked torso as he considered his options. He laid his sword across the bare chest and felt his nearly healed groin stir when the chilled blade made Methos gasp. Admiring the burnished metal against the smooth, as yet unbroken skin, he placed his hand over Methos' heart and waited. His smile deepened as he felt the swift pounding a mere inch or two beneath his palm. "Do you fear me, Brother?"

"Yes…." The reluctant whisper was barely audible.

Kronos smiled fondly. He could always gauge the effectiveness of his tactics by how Methos answered a question; a non–evasive answer finally meant Kronos had the upper hand. "I knew you were the clever one." He let his thumb slide over until it was rubbing against a nipple. As he encouraged it to harden, he continued, his voice still soft and reasonable. "But sometimes, you try to be too clever, don't you?"

"Kronos, no…."

Kronos pinched the nipple hard, causing a sharp intake of air from the trapped man. "Don't lie to me, Methos," he warned. "You really do not want me angrier than I already am." He twisted the abused nub, and Methos squirmed painfully beneath him. The reaction excited Kronos, and he drew his thighs tighter, holding his prisoner more firmly as he felt himself growing hard at the thought of what was to come. "You need another lesson, don't you, Brother?"

Methos closed his eyes, his breath ragged. His unwillingness all too apparent, he nevertheless agreed, his jaw clenched tight. "Yes, Kronos."

"That's better. Now, which lesson will it be today, eh?" He drew his dagger and let the tip barely scratch the hollows and hills around his captive's collarbone, oh–so–close to that sweet, proud throat. "I'll tell you what, Brother," he mused, brushing his sword away, clearing room for him to work. "I'll let you decide. If I find you are just as excited as I am, you can skip the messy bit where I put my dagger into your heart and leave it there for a couple of days. Does that sound fair? Mmmm?"

Methos opened his eyes and swallowed dryly, trying to maintain a neutral expression, but Kronos could see the fear and revulsion on the painted face's fine features. Kronos knew his favorite brother was still squeamish about combining sex and pain, but one of these days, one of these days…Methos would come to understand and savor the thrill of pain and pleasure meeting, merging until the sensation was so overwhelming that death was a release of sublime sweetness. It was a gift Kronos would continue to give to Methos until the day Methos could understand the context and be transported. It was a day Kronos hungered for with a frustrating ache.

"More than fair, Brother," Methos said tightly. Kronos could see a flush in the pinned body beneath him, could smell the excitement as that body prepared automatically for what was to come. The flesh knew what it wanted, even if Methos didn't — and it wanted Kronos.

Kronos smiled down upon Methos. "Let's see what's up, eh?" he said, as he slid backwards off Methos, letting his fingers prowl between the fabric and flesh, enjoying the sudden tensing of the flat abdominal muscles as Methos instinctively sought to protect his vulnerable belly. Standing up, Kronos reached down and jerked at the knot in Methos' drawstring, releasing it. He grabbed the waist of the trousers and with a powerful move pulled the garment off.

Tossing the clothing aside, he leaned over and peered through the dim light at Methos' groin. The organ lay thickly, half–aroused. He smiled. "It looks like it's your lucky day!"

Picking up the knife, he lay down beside Methos and let the flat of the blade caress up until it was pressed against the sharp angle of the jaw. Guided by the deadly pressure, Methos tilted his head back, exposing his neck even more than it already was, his chest heaving from a combination of excitement and fear. Kronos smiled down at the naked man beside him. "Ahh…You do so enjoy our little sessions together, don't you, Methos?" he said, as he eyed his quarry's growing erection. "In fact, I even wonder if you don't do these things on purpose — things you know I won't like — just to get my attention. Have I been neglecting you again, dearest Brother? Have you been trying to capture my notice?"

Methos shot an incredulous glance at his tormentor. "Dear gods, no…." he groaned, despairingly.

Kronos chuckled indulgently. "I'll forgive you for that, because I know you're lying to me again. I know you like this." He used the knife to tap the erection, making it jerk in response. He smiled toothily. "You know, I'm glad she ran away. You are going to be so much more enjoyable than that bitch could have ever been."

* * * * *

  


#### The Present Tense

"MacLeod? Is that you?" To anyone who knew Methos well, it was plain his voice was nervous and uncertain.

 _Perfect. Now it begins._

Swiftly, Kronos rose from behind a parked car and threw the knife hard at his target. The blade buried itself to the hilt, slightly off–center towards the left. It was exactly where Methos' heart was; Kronos was well–versed on its location.

Methos stared down in shocked surprise at the ornately carved ivory hilt sticking out of his chest. Kronos had chosen it because the handle was a near perfect twin of one from their shared past, and he had known that just the sight of it would cause Methos fear. The weapon was but one small detail in a plan filled with exact details; a plan that had taken Kronos weeks to refine. A plan that would end with Methos, once and for all, completely subjugated to the power and will of his former leader and sometimes tormentor.

Leaping gracefully over the hood of the car, Kronos stood in front of the dying man. He grabbed a handful of sweater and coat to steady Methos, keeping him on his feet as he leaned in close.

"Greetings, Brother," he said, enjoying the naked emotion displayed on a face that always carefully concealed its true feelings.

Stunned with disbelief, Methos stared at him. "Kronos!" His horrified gaze dropped again to the knife.

"I missed you, too." Kronos grinned sadistically as death overtook his companion of over a thousand years. An agonized groan faded from Methos as his heart ceased to beat, and he slid bonelessly to the ground.

Delighted, Kronos stared down at the lifeless body. How easy it had all been! He laughed as he grabbed the slight shoulders and dragged his prize to the rear of the Jimmy. Within a few seconds, he had dumped Methos into the vehicle and ferreted out the keys from a snug pocket in the faded blue jeans. It was with eager anticipation that he drove the truck to the abandoned power station he had chosen for his base. Now that he had Methos, he could start a chain of events that would force his old compatriot back into the fold, back under Kronos' control.

Once at the station, Kronos hefted the limp form over his shoulder and carried him deep into the building. He let the body fall heavily onto a raised, metallic, circular platform, then he slid it about until it rested in the center. This pleased Kronos, for even the location where Methos would revive had been specifically chosen for its effect on the ancient Immortal. In this position, Methos resembled a sacrifice laid out on an altar stone, and Kronos knew this would trigger some unpleasant memories from Methos' past as well. Kronos had meticulously considered every detail, with the end result that Methos would have no choice but to do what Kronos wanted. His old partner had been the most ingenious, the most challenging of companions. It had been a constant battle to maintain control over him, and Kronos thrilled to the task of mastering him again. It would be a sweet victory and an affirmation of Kronos' innate superiority when he succeeded. It had been too long since Kronos had been in the company of men he felt were worthy of him and his special talents.

Only when all was as it should be did Kronos remove his blade and settle down to wait for Methos' resurrection.

Not long after, Kronos felt the change. A dead Immortal's aura was not as loud as the one from an Immortal who was fully alive; it thrummed at a higher pitch, yet was softer. One had to be very close to sense it. Methos' buzz was now rapidly flaring, and he was seconds away from reviving.

Kronos picked up a length of heavy chain — yet another detail chosen for the unnerving effect it would have on Methos. Kronos knew all about the ancient Immortal's unpleasant past experiences suffered while he had been chained. Kronos smiled fondly; he had inflicted some of them himself.

He stood directly over Methos and waited. A deep, shuddering gasp signaled the return of life to a body that was older than the pyramids. He smiled down at the dazed man. "It's been a long time. How are you feeling?"

Methos coughed painfully as his lungs reinflated. "Like I left my heart in San Francisco," he answered, his discomfort making him snide.

"I didn't know you had a heart. Does it hurt?" he asked, curious to know if Methos would admit to it.

The callous reply had the desired result — anger. "What do you think?!" he said hotly, and started to roll away from Kronos.

"Since you asked, I think you're not used to pain, Brother." He dropped to one knee and forced Methos onto his back again. "What happened? You've gone soft?!" he demanded.

Methos burned with resentment. "I just passed through my angry adolescence a little quicker than you, Kronos."

Now it was time to quash the rebellion Kronos had encouraged, to brutally end any thoughts of independence Methos might have. Kronos rested his forearm across the exposed throat and leaned heavily downward, cutting off all air. He smiled at the panic on Methos' face as his old partner suddenly remembered just with whom he was dealing.

"For a long time I thought you were dead. I didn't even bother looking for you." A short laugh escaped him, pleased at the way Methos froze and did not struggle against him. Methos had always been a quick study; it usually only took one painful reprimand before he learned a lesson.

Kronos lifted his arm and watched dispassionately as Methos breathed out noisily, his bruised trachea barely allowing air to pass. Sitting back, Kronos evaluated the effects of his tactics, aware he needed to continue the bombardment if he wanted to keep Methos off–balance.

"Then I heard rumors," Kronos continued, shifting the chains noisily. Because he was looking for it, he saw the slight hesitation the clanking caused as Methos slowly rolled onto his side.

"Methos — the world's oldest man. You slipped up there, old friend," he said, his voice heavy with amusement. "You got sloppy."

Methos had always taken pride in his strategies, and the criticism rankled — as it was meant to. "Well, we're none of us perfect," he said sullenly as he sat up.

"I shouldn't be surprised you're still alive. You were always the one I counted on. You weren't the strongest, or the toughest, but you were the survivor." Kronos laughed and added, "It's what you do best." He let the compliment settle before he leaned in, his mouth close enough that his breath was hot and moist against Methos' neck. "Or did." He let the statement hang.

Methos froze at those two words. Kronos waited and watched as Methos came to a fearful realization of what they might mean.

"So, you've come to kill me," Methos said, his voice carefully devoid of any expression.

Kronos was delighted. "It's what I do best!" he said, enjoying how truly unnerved Methos was.

Kronos stood then and shifted the chains, getting a better grip. He watched as Methos stared at the metal links, mesmerized, obviously imagining what they were about to do to his body. Kronos' old partner slowly changed his position, defensively readying himself, looking noticeably scared and totally unable to think past the violence he believed was almost upon him.

Now was the time to bait the trap. "But you do have a choice," Kronos offered.

It was an unexpected reprieve, and Methos was quick to grasp at this sudden chance for life. "Oh, I'm all for choices," he said, his voice dry and trembling almost imperceptibly.

 _It all comes down to this._ Kronos stared intensely at Methos, savoring the moment. "Well, you can either lose your head…or you can join me."

Death or recruitment; it was an easy choice for a man who valued survival above all else. Kronos could see that Methos knew he had been trapped, cornered, and forced into the decision Kronos desired. Outfoxed and out–classed, Methos swallowed hard, his expression one of sick resignation as he accepted his defeat. "Since you put it that way; welcome back, Brother."

The trap snapped shut, and Kronos knew he had Methos thoroughly snared. He tossed the chains away as he savored a victory sweeter than any he had enjoyed for a thousand years. Here was Methos — always so proud and clever and as elusive as the wind — sitting before him, completely cowed and submissive. The absolute power he felt was a rush pulsing through his body. He felt his pants tighten as his cock eagerly sought to consummate his conquest. He wanted all of Methos — body and soul. He had outwitted him and earned the right to use his mind and intellect. Now he would take his body, sealing his triumph and completing his ownership, reaffirming his rights from thousands of years ago.

Kronos took a step closer and switched languages, using a tongue that had last been heard over two millennia ago on the steppes of Eurasia. "Show me your allegiance, Brother; I will take your pledge, now, in blood, so I know you really mean it."

All the color drained from Methos' face. There was no English equivalent to the ancient word for 'allegiance,' and Methos knew immediately what Kronos was demanding. In the dim and distant past, a man's oath and his word were the same as the man; if you gave your word, you were pledging yourself, literally. To demand this in blood was rarely requested, for it debased the man of whom it was compelled — it was asking for complete submission to the power and will of another. Once requested, it could not be refused; to do so was to admit that one's word was false and to reveal one's intended treachery.

Methos looked ill. "Here?" he finally asked.

"Now." Kronos let his gaze fall to the ruined sweater Methos still wore. "You can start by taking that off."

Methos paused, reconsidering his options, unconsciously biting at his lower lip. It was a nervous reaction to which he had always been prone, and seeing it again almost made Kronos chuckle. He watched as Methos calculated his options and came to the same conclusion again: refuse and lose his head, or agree and survive. Kronos knew him very well — Methos would always pick survival, no matter the cost. He had no other choice.

Methos swallowed hard and shrugged off his long coat. Resignedly, he gripped the sweater and in one quick move, pulled it over his head and flung it away from himself. His expression was flat as he looked back at Kronos.

Anticipation burned eagerly in Kronos' eyes. "And the rest," he directed.

Reaching down, Methos pulled off his hiking boots and socks. He stood then and unfastened his jeans. With quick efficiency, he slid them off and kicked them to the side. He stood naked in front of Kronos, his head up, his stare unflinching.

Kronos took his time and slowly eyed the proud, faintly defiant man in front of him, not minding the attitude; in fact, it added to his enjoyment — sex was always better if his partner was unwilling. With an experienced eye, he noted Methos was slightly less muscular overall, but still trim and lean. His skin glowed palely, and his short hair made him seem older, yet at the same time more accessible. His cowled sex hung limply, uninterested in the proceedings, and that was perhaps the biggest change Kronos could see in his old partner.

Well, cooperation wasn't necessary. And as for the attitude, Kronos was going to take great pleasure in fucking it out of him so hard that when he was done, all that was going to be left was a man who would know, with absolute certainty, he had been thoroughly mastered. With this one lesson, Methos would fall meekly back in line and resume his old role.

Perhaps meekly wasn't quite the right word. Kronos knew his brother would give the appearance of submission, but he would immediately begin developing hidden agendas. The only way to prevent it would be to separate his pretty head from the rest of his infinitely desirable body, and that was just too high a price to pay. Actually, Kronos was looking forward to seeing what Methos would devise; anticipating him and blocking his intricate plans was a pastime Kronos greatly enjoyed — almost as much as he enjoyed raping him. Either way, he was exerting control and mastery over his most worthy and reluctant brother.

Kronos unzipped his fly and freed himself. His cock was already hard and straining upwards, thirsting for the blood of the archaic oath. A few steps brought them face to face, and something in his eye must have given away his mood, for Methos suddenly went pale again.

"That's better," Kronos said. Without further ado, he grabbed Methos' shoulders and spun him around, pushing hard until he lay sprawled on the cold platform. With one booted foot he kicked the legs apart, leaving Methos wide open and unprotected. Placing his hands on Methos' ass, he forced both thumbs into the tight opening and pulled firmly. He was rewarded with a sharp gasp of pain. Moving closer, he shoved the head of his cock against the hole and thrust in hard, the dry penetration causing him the most exquisite pain.

It hurt Kronos, but it hurt Methos more, and he cried out.

The entry was not as tight as expected, and Kronos felt a surge of jealousy. "This path has been traveled recently, Brother. Who've you been grabbing your ankles for? MacLeod? Have you been playing the bitch–in–heat for the mighty Highlander?" That Methos had taken the tall and handsome Immortal as his lover was something Kronos had already guessed; Methos' stubborn silence on the matter only confirmed his suspicion. Now that he had uncovered the depth of their relationship, Kronos would be better able to exploit it to his advantage.

Getting a grip on the lean hips, he pushed in hard, punishingly so, until he saw the neck muscles taut and corded and heard the sharp hiss of air as Methos gasped. "That's right, Methos. You haven't been filled like this since the last time I mounted you. You've missed it, haven't you?"

Kronos brutally pumped in a few more times until he felt the resistance lessen, his way made easier by a slickness. He pulled out and was pleased to see his cock stained bright red. "The blood oath has begun, Brother," he said, his voice tight with excitement as the smell of fresh blood brought back joyful memories of mayhem.

He reached into his pocket and brought out a cock ring. With sure, quick fingers, he snapped it onto himself. "Better make yourself comfortable," he taunted. "This is going to take quite a while." Finished, he took hold of the man in front of him, and with a shout, forced his way in again. An agonized groan rewarded him, and he braced himself for a long, hard workout. The smell of blood, a naked, helpless body before him and the short, wordless sounds of pain his victims made — oh! these were things that brought him higher and made his blood flow hot with delight. And the fact that it was Methos he had pinned beneath him…well, if he had not been wearing the cock ring, the very thought would have made him come right then.

As he thrust into Methos, Kronos thought pleasurably about his future plans and used the distraction to pace himself, enabling him to sustain the rape for a very long time. Methos would take a long time to break, as Kronos knew from past experience. It was important that Methos come to understand again that his only purpose was in relation to Kronos. If Kronos merely required his ass as a hot, tight receptacle to be fucked, then that was all he was. Physical abuse was such a time–saver when it came to humiliating and demoralizing a man — its effectiveness was unrivaled.

Settling into a hard, steady rhythm, Kronos considered Methos' next move. He knew as soon as the ancient Immortal could, he would run to Duncan MacLeod. Oh, yes, Kronos had known that Methos — when he was finally found — would be in the company of a powerful and handsome Immortal; MacLeod fit the bill with amusing predictability. This tendency was part of the description Kronos had given to Kasulas when he had given the old mercenary permission to use Methos' identity, close to twenty years ago.

A few centuries before, Kronos had formed an alliance with Kasulas, and together they had terrorized a large part of what was now Kazakhstan. Reunited in a chance encounter twenty years ago, he had learned Kasulas had undergone a drastic change; some sort of accident involving multiple simultaneous Quickenings and blunt trauma to his head had left him convinced his destiny was to persuade Immortals to leave the Game. It had also given him an eerie power to pick up details about Immortals from their auras. Seeing a chance to draw Methos out of hiding, Kronos had told Kasulas he would have more luck if he went by the legendary name of Methos. In return, all he asked was that when Kasulas met the real Methos, he was to contact Kronos and let him know where he was. Kasulas had had no trouble identifying the real Methos and had notified Kronos as requested. And as a gift, the old mercenary had given Kronos the name of an Immortal whom he had seen in both Methos' and MacLeod's minds — Cassandra.

So, Kronos had lured Cassandra back to Seacouver and had arranged it so she and MacLeod would meet while both were hunting him. When Methos inevitably went crawling to MacLeod for help, he would find Cassandra already within the Highlander's sphere of responsibility. Depending on how well things went, Methos might even be forced to run back to Kronos for protection from his newest knight–errant.

As he thought of how thoroughly trapped Methos was, he pounded even harder into him, wishing the ancient Immortal still had his long hair, for he felt like yanking hard on it right now. Instead, he settled for a short, sharp punch to the lower back.

Methos yelped and arched up, tightening exquisitely around Kronos. When the additional pain was followed by a shuddering, indrawn breath, he knew he had defeated Methos. Methos had always pretended events did not matter to him, but he had let them build up inside until he was overtaken by an emotional outburst. Even after all these years, Methos was so predictable. Kronos smiled as another sob shook the body beneath him. You could never describe Methos as either strong or tough, but he was invaluable just the same.

Pulling out just enough to unsnap the cock ring, he leaned forward and steadied himself by placing his hands on shoulder and ribs. Gathering his feet directly under him, he thrust in, using his knees to push up, lifting the abused body with each stroke. The new position gave him the added pressure he needed, and he climaxed, shooting his hot cum deeply into Methos. Groaning, he held on tightly and rested his head against a prominent shoulder blade as he felt spurt after painful spurt leave him. As it ended, he opened his mouth and bit hard on the smooth skin to mark his conquest, causing Methos to jump yet again.

"Now we are truly brothers in blood again," Kronos said, very pleased. "I do so love the old ways," he murmured.

He dug into his pocket again, pulling out a small, plastic case. Opening it, he removed a small, rust–colored, waxy capsule. "I have something special for you," Kronos said as he stood up, withdrawing his softening cock. Before he let the other man move, he thrust the suppository deep into Methos. It was only a moment before Methos hissed and jerked as the capsule began to dissolve, the spices it contained causing an immediate burning sensation.

"What the — ?!" Methos began.

Kronos chuckled, rubbing the tense, rounded muscles of Methos' buttocks fondly. "That, Brother, is to remind you of what we just shared, since otherwise you would quickly heal and forget all my hard effort. Can you smell it?" he said as he took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of exotic spices that wafted up. "This will keep you from forgetting my touch too soon," he said, "and will serve as a warning to all others that you belong to another — to me," he said, adding a sharp slap for punctuation. "For you are mine now; remember that and your life will be less painful." He laughed, then added, "but not entirely so!"

It was exciting to think that when Methos went to MacLeod, he would still feel the burn of Kronos' mark within him. And when Methos realized that even from afar Kronos was still outwitting him, this lingering heat deep between his legs would remind him of this moment — when he lay helpless under the man who had taken his body and broken his spirit. He would be forced to accept the fact that Kronos was his natural superior and that his only future was beside him; his only concern was pleasing him.

* * * * *

  


#### The Future Imperfect

Methos blocked the axe, but the weight of the blow knocked his own sword out of his numb, weary hand, sending the weapon sailing past him. He stumbled backwards and tripped, landing on his backside on the narrow catwalk. He watched as Silas raised the axe high overhead for a blow that, if it connected, would cut Methos nearly in half. As Silas committed to finishing the move, Methos executed a quick, neat somersault. When his feet touched the floor, he scrambled quickly over to where his sword lay, aware that Silas followed mere inches behind him now. His fingers closed around the hilt.

"Methos!" The word was bitter, accusing, and icy. All fighting ceased at Kronos' voice.

The ancient Immortal froze and looked up to see both Kronos and Duncan MacLeod pause from their fight to the death to stare at him. Methos was too well aware his actions had, for once in his life, revealed his true thoughts and feelings to those who had the power to hurt him. Caught between the intensity of their expressions, Methos felt painfully exposed. The betrayal on Kronos' face turned to righteous anger, then red rage, and Methos saw the promise of his own death in those eyes. Unable to withstand the accusation any longer, he looked to MacLeod. He watched as the Highlander's expression of hurt rejection slowly softened to confusion, with the first glimmers of realization.

The tableau burned itself into Methos' mind. His fate would be decided between those two men. If MacLeod lost, well, there was little point in running from Kronos, for his old leader would not rest until he had taken Methos' head for this final betrayal; his destiny would be to die shortly after MacLeod. If MacLeod won, Methos would probably survive, but life without the Highlander's warmth and affection would be pale and empty. Either way, death of one sort or another awaited him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Silas turn toward him. Taking his sword firmly in hand once again, he stood to face his more immediate threat. He closed his mind to the affection he felt for Silas and began the strategy that would give him his best chance for victory, a strategy made possible by watching his old partner fight ten thousand battles as his closest brother–in–arms.

Methos feinted at the big Immortal with a move that encouraged Silas to bring the axe down in a full extension. He dodged to the side, and with a quick step, he was behind Silas. Allowing no time for either of them to turn to face the other, he swung his blade in a horizontal arc, fast and hard, at neck level. As his shoulder reached full extension behind him, he twisted with it, lengthening the stroke impossibly. He felt a momentary resistance and heard the heavy, dull sound of a head hitting the concrete floor behind him. He grimaced as a terrible ache pierced his soul, lacerating his heart with the same fateful sword stroke that killed his most beloved brother; he had given himself yet another deep wound, another regret that would plague him always.

Silas was dead, and he had killed him.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, telling himself that he had had no other choice, that Silas had not been salvageable. The big Immortal's loyalty was primarily to Kronos, and if MacLeod and Methos were to live and Kronos to die, Silas also had to die. Methos repeated it over and over, trying to calm himself — trying not to remember what a good friend Silas had been to him. Trying to ignore he had just betrayed and sacrificed one friend to save another…and himself.

The air around him turned a luminous white; the Quickening had begun. The power surrounded him as it built, the glowing energy pressing against his skin, trying to soak into him. Its force was surprisingly gentle, and he could feel Silas within it. What was worse, he could sense the love and affection the big Immortal still felt for him, despite the fact Methos had just betrayed and killed him.

Love, power, and pain; Methos groaned under the onslaught. The primal pleasure inherent in any Quickening had turned decidedly sexual under this rare combination of feelings. As another wave of energy washed into him, he moaned and felt himself harden in response.

Lightning flashed on the other side of the cavernous submarine bay. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw MacLeod standing tall and strong as a bolt of energy hit, and Methos knew the Highlander had finally defeated Kronos.

Further thought was impossible as Silas' Quickening began to release its true power. Bolts of electricity pierced Methos as other beams of energy shot upwards, striking the ceiling and causing debris and sparks to fall around him. Then the main storm hit, shaking him like a green sapling in a hurricane, as more than three thousand years of life energy fought to enter his soul, his being. He cried out, feeling as though he would explode — feeling as if he needed to.

Through his haze of pain, he caught sight of MacLeod again and was horrified to see a coil of pure white power spiraling out of the Highlander. The energy twisted about the cavernous room, plainly seeking something specific. When its search brought it near Methos, it leapt forward and entered him through his eye, slicing with a burning intensity straight into his brain. Incredibly, as the white fire seared destructively through his every nerve, he could see Kronos gloating vengefully at him, and the hollow echo of his laughter drowned out all other sound. The pain was unbearable, and he screamed and screamed, yet never heard his own voice.

Suddenly, the assault was over, and he collapsed. Seizures coursed through his body, and he twitched and spasmed uncontrollably. As he became aware of his surroundings, he discovered he was crouched down on all fours. Numbly, he realized he was both deaf and blind. As he struggled to comprehend such an astounding occurrence, he felt himself gripped by a compulsion to remain still with his head extended. The eerie feeling was so familiar…it reminded him of something else from long ago….

 _Cassandra!_

He could feel her power as the Voice willed his joints locked. His muscles strained futilely against the invisible bonds that held him motionless, and he was overcome with despair. How was she able to affect him when he couldn't even hear her? Had his utter exhaustion left him vulnerable to such a feeble trick? Or was it that he had fractured into a thousand pieces emotionally when he took Silas' life, leaving precious little of his will to fight?

Helpless before her, he cried out the words that were both his defense and his shame. "I killed Silas! I liked Silas!" But he could hear neither his own voice, nor any reply she made. Still, he was held in place, ready for her long–delayed justice. His heart ached with the knowledge that all his schemes and carefully thought–out plans had only bought him a few short seconds of life free from the rest of the Horsemen. He began to cry, overwhelmed by guilt and grief and this futile, unjust ending to his life. He still desperately wanted to live, despite everything that had happened to him, despite everything he had done and regretted.

Through his misery, he imagined he heard the Highlander's voice call out, "Cassandra!" Then, with the Scot's burr more pronounced, Methos plainly heard the soft declaration, "Yes. I want him to live." He did not perceive the words through his ears, though. They seemed to come from within him, his whole body vibrating with the deep tones of Duncan MacLeod's voice. Was MacLeod asking her to spare Methos' life?

There was no lessening of the power that held him ready for slaughter, and it seemed he would die despite the pleas of his one–time friend and lover. He felt tears burn in his otherwise useless eyes.

Then, into the silence, Duncan's voice roared, angry and commanding. "Cassandra! I want him to live!" There was the very real promise of retribution in those words, and Methos realized his death must be very close, a mere movement away. He drew in a sobbing breath, perhaps the last he would ever take.

Suddenly, his neck muscles relaxed, free of the compulsion that had kept him raised and ready for her blade. His head dangled heavily, for he had not the strength to lift it again, and he dully noted he took no comfort from the fact that he would live after all. He began to cry in earnest then — for what, he couldn't tell, but some of the pain being released had been stored within him for thousands of years. He cried for Silas' death and for MacLeod's rejection of him. He cried his relief at finally being free of Kronos and his torments, and for his own lack of courage that had kept him imprisoned by another. He even cried for the death of what he had been, the loss of his brothers, and the end of an era.

And he found he kept crying because he could not stop.

He fell over onto his side, sobs shaking his entire being. Methos was totally alone in the silent tomb of his misery when a hand touched his shoulder. It gripped him, warm and firm, then moved across to rub his back. Up and down, it promised comfort and reassurance, and let him know he wasn't alone.

Strangely, the touch only made him worse, and he gave voice to a keening wail, but could not hear that either. Two strong arms reached around and gathered him up until he was half–cradled in a lap, pulled close until he felt the beating of a heart beneath his cheek. His next breath carried the scent of sweat and aftershave; Duncan MacLeod had surrounded him, offering to be his anchor through the tempest in which he was lost. He clung tightly and let himself be rocked and comforted in a way he couldn't remember ever before allowing himself.

After a time, he quieted and rested silently in the sure embrace. The outpouring of emotion had left him weak, and he lay limply, aware of nothing but the beating heart and the rhythmic breathing of the man who held him. When he felt someone shaking his shoulder, he guessed MacLeod was trying to get a response to something. Since his eyes had yet to sense any light, and his ears remained stubbornly quiet, he sighed, resigned to confessing his condition.

"Duncan, I cannot see or hear." He did not even hear his own words and almost doubted he had actually uttered anything at all, save that the arms that held him tightened, and the gentle swaying stopped.

After a moment, Methos felt Duncan's hand slip behind his head, the fingers warm as they tucked him close — safe under the Highlander's chin. Even though the touch had communicated complete reassurance, Methos still felt cold and bereft when Duncan shifted out from under him and stepped away. MacLeod returned a few moments later and pulled on Methos' arm, encouraging him to stand. The ancient Immortal struggled to his feet and quickly discovered his balance was also damaged when he nearly fell over. Arms hastily encircled his shoulders again, steadying him. He was so very tired; he leaned heavily into the sturdy arms of the man who supported him. He found he no longer cared whether he was seen as weak or vulnerable; he was exhausted and only wanted to sleep. Nudged to walk in a certain direction, he stumbled constantly over the debris and uneven concrete. When MacLeod finally lifted him up, he was too tired to be surprised, only grateful that he wasn't expected to walk any further. He curled reflexively towards the warm, safe haven that was Duncan.

A short time later, he was set down. He felt a hard bar at knee level, and he bent over, feeling for the bed that had to be there. His fingers traced over rough wool blankets, and he recognized some of the bedding the Horseman had used. Tugging wearily at the covers, he slid between them with the last of his energy. When hands pulled and plucked at his lower legs, he didn't resist, not caring if he slept with his boots on or off. He was only vaguely aware of the bed shifting as MacLeod slipped in beside him, drawing him close as Duncan settled into the narrow bed.

* * * * *

MacLeod was alarmed by the strength and amplitude of power that poured out of Kronos as his Quickening was transferred. It came at MacLeod too fast, and he felt like a balloon near to bursting. When he thought he could stand it no longer, a brilliance coalesced within his body, like sugar crystallizing out of a saturated solution. He felt a suction throughout his entire being as the energy gathered and pulsed upwards. It concentrated at the back of his throat, focusing itself until it reached an integrity that allowed it the independence to soar away from him. As it left, he could sense the want and desire in the power and knew it hungered for something more, something other than him.

Then the energy coil found Methos. MacLeod gasped as he felt the power surge victoriously out of him, causing a feeling halfway between an orgasm and an exquisite evisceration. Vaguely, he could hear Methos' screams, and he sensed an echo of the other man's agony as the pain rebounded back through the link that connected them. To his utter astonishment, MacLeod enjoyed Methos' pain. _Yes, yes! Hurt him; make him suffer!_ the energy sang as it flew eagerly into Methos. The sensation intensified quickly until Duncan staggered back in shocked horror, abruptly breaking the connection and ending the Quickening. He had no idea what had just occurred, only that it was repulsive and violent.

Dazed and confused, MacLeod stared numbly as Cassandra suddenly appeared, approached Methos, and prepared to take his head. His friend's complete defenselessness was enough to trigger MacLeod, rousing him from his stupor; the need to deal with Methos himself made MacLeod call out to Cassandra. "Cassandra! I want him to live!" His warning was loud and clear, and reluctantly, she withdrew, leaving Methos oh–so–alone as he sobbed, oblivious to everything around him.

Dual feelings warred within MacLeod, and he hovered indecisively. Methos had been his lover for over a year, and during that time their friendship had deepened, genuine fondness and affection enhancing the curiosity and magnetism that had originally drawn them together. His heart ached to see Methos so distraught, but he also felt betrayed Methos had not confided such an astounding part of his past — that his mild–mannered friend had been the very embodiment of death for at least a millennium! It was too much to accept that this portion of Methos' past was too inconsequential to mention. More importantly, Methos had lied to him when Cassandra had first confronted Methos about their mutual history. The bottom line was Methos was not the man MacLeod believed him to be, and that was incredibly unsettling. The Highlander had trusted his love and his very life to a man he thought was, on the whole, gentle and peaceable, if a bit cynical and self–centered. Now, MacLeod realized those were the least of Methos' character flaws, and he had no idea what he should do about him.

Instead of abating, Methos' crying intensified, chilling MacLeod with the depth of pain and loss he could hear in the terrible sobs that were wrenched out of the ancient Immortal. Finally, his own heart could not stand to witness such desolation in another, no matter what they had done. Carefully, he approached and knelt beside him, firmly rubbing the quaking shoulders. The touch meant to console had the opposite effect, and MacLeod was appalled by the almost inhuman cry of despair that rose from his friend.

"For God's sake, Methos," he said, pulling the devastated man into his arms. "It will be all right," he soothed as he rocked back and forth, helpless to heal his friend's anguish.

Only when his legs went tingly, and he became too aware of his own exhaustion from battles both emotional and physical, did MacLeod decide it was time to leave. He needed to get back to his hotel and call Joe; perhaps the Watcher would have some ideas on how best to dispose of Kronos' deadly virus.

"Methos," he said. "We need to leave — let's go." When he got no response, he shook a shoulder and repeated himself.

"Duncan, I cannot see or hear," Methos informed him in a dull, cracked voice.

MacLeod stared down in astonishment at the man huddled in his lap. Things like that couldn't happen to an Immortal! And even if they did, why hadn't his healing abilities kicked in and mended the damage? It went against everything he thought he knew about Immortals.

Stunned, he considered what it would mean if the condition were permanent. He imagined Methos confined to Holy Ground, but unable to study the books he loved, or listen to the music he enjoyed — easy prey for any Immortal greedy enough to forcibly remove him in order to take his head. The image sickened him, and his stomach gave a nauseating lurch. No; there had to be an alternative. Methos _would_ be healed. Maybe Joe had heard of something like this and might to able to help.

MacLeod stood, gathered their weapons, and urged Methos to his feet. Methos reeled and stumbled about as they slowly shuffled along, until, frustrated with their slow progress, MacLeod scooped up his lanky companion. Realizing they were both dead tired, he abandoned his plans to return to the hotel. Instead, he angled them toward a room with some cots he had glimpsed during his initial reconnaissance of the submarine base.

Methos collapsed into bed when MacLeod set him down. The Highlander stared at the slight figure as he lay so still and knew he could never leave while Methos was so completely vulnerable. It took no additional rationalizations for him to give in to the desire to lie next to Methos one last time and hold him close while they both slept. He paused only long enough to remove their boots, then simply crawled in beside Methos, wrapping his arms about the slack body.

MacLeod lay quietly, overwhelmed and rendered bone–tired by the recent events. He ceased trying to understand what had happened, preferring instead to merely react to each item as it demanded his immediate attention — and what demanded his attention now was Methos. The ancient Immortal had been hurt by the bizarre Quickening, of that MacLeod was sure. He pulled the slighter man close, indulging his simple need to protect him, unable or unwilling to think past that basic necessity for now.

He was prepared to surrender to sleep, but found he couldn't — at least not yet. With his body quiet and the silence complete, suddenly he was aware of a vague feeling he had ignored until now; a weird foreboding that niggled at his brain, worrying him. It felt almost like the aura of an Immortal, but it was too faint. In some respects it reminded him of descriptions he had heard of phantom pain, the ghostly sensations that originated in absent limbs. It unsettled him, and he glanced uneasily about the room, glad he had propped his sword against the bed. He briefly considered that it might be Cassandra, hovering somewhere about at the edge of his awareness, but he discarded that notion. Wherever this came from, it was close, though he could not localize it any further than that. When the feeling neither lessened nor gained strength, he finally relaxed just enough to fall into a guarded sleep.

* * * * *

Methos jerked awake from a violent dream filled with splattering blood, bright flashes of swords, and a dark, unseen menace that loomed threateningly near. His instinct to flee was stayed with difficulty, his eyes seeing only unpleasant swirls of foggy grey. Memories flooded his mind, and with a shaky effort, he calmed himself, finding reassurance in the fact that he could at least see something. He was healing, even though it was taking longer than usual.

He jerked abruptly as he felt the bed dip. The covers shifted about as someone slid into bed beside him. Cautiously, he inhaled and was reassured by Duncan's scent; the Highlander must have gotten up for some reason. Willing himself to relax back into the comforting warmth, he allowed the past to flow through him as he began the process of integration. He lay quietly, trying to assimilate all that had happened, to find inner acceptance for his recent actions. He was too well aware that this time it promised to be a lengthy process, and he sighed heavily.

Methos turned and stretched — freezing when his hand brushed against bare skin, pubic hair and a hard–on that wasn't his.

A callused hand captured his wrist and pulled until his palm lay flat against a hard, muscular stomach. His hand was pushed and guided about until he was rubbing the abdomen in a circular motion.

"MacLeod?" he questioned. His hearing was returning, but it was muffled and distorted, and only the lowest sounds were registering. He could make out the sound of a reply, but not the words.

"I still can't hear properly. What's…what…?" he asked, confused by an intimate touch when he expected reproach. Where were MacLeod's accusations and thinly veiled condemnations? The loss of his senses was particularly disorienting as he realized just how much he depended upon his ability to interpret non–verbal cues.

More rumbling low notes, then MacLeod's body quickly rolled over on top of his. A hungry mouth kissed and sucked wetly over his neck, across his chin and onto his lips. Hands, hard and eager, fumbled at the fastening of his jeans, worrying them open. MacLeod's mouth abandoned him as the big man's weight shifted. Strong hands peeled the jeans off his hips and past his knees. The heavy body returned, pressing onto his, writhing back and forth as it rubbed against him. Hands pushed impatiently at his shirt until it lay bunched under his arms, and a knee wedged between his thighs, working them as far apart as the constricting jeans allowed. Duncan's stiff erection poked insistently at Methos' stomach when it wasn't caught between the firm pressure of their bodies.

Methos was stunned by the urgent onslaught. MacLeod had made love to him many times in the past, but sex with Duncan was never harsh and impersonal like this. It was even more odd that MacLeod did not seem to mind — or care — that Methos wasn't participating; his hands and mouth roamed at will over the unresponsive body beneath him. Methos lay quietly, unable to reciprocate even if he had been of a mind to; he was suffering from exhaustion, having spent himself during Silas' Quickening.

Ahh, the Quickening! That was it. Quickenings could be very erotic, and after all, Kronos was both old and powerful. The Quickening had probably infused MacLeod with a great deal of sexual energy, leaving him aroused and excited.

Feeling a bit more secure, Methos tentatively brought his hands up, stroking the hard torso that strained over him. Working them around, he rubbed the small of MacLeod's back, then reached down to clutch the firm buttocks.

It was a mistake.

MacLeod bit his face, hard enough to draw blood.

Startled by the pain, Methos cursed and shoved angrily at MacLeod's now unwelcome weight.

The burly Scot shifted and delivered a vicious, backhanded blow that stunned Methos, stinging his face and vanquishing any further thoughts he might have had about resisting.

The Highlander became even more abrupt and wild. His mouth closed over a nipple, and using teeth and tongue, stretched and nipped the nub savagely as he shook his head.

Methos yelled again and felt cold panic well up inside him. Kronos! Kronos had liked to bite him just like that. Oh, gods! What was happening? He couldn't see who was rutting on top of him, couldn't make out the deep, rumbling words, but it _had_ to be MacLeod; he had seen him take Kronos' Quickening! But why was MacLeod acting like this? It wasn't like him at all. Methos felt even more panicky as he realized he was completely unable to muster a defense, or even run away. He felt helpless and exposed, and he automatically reverted to his most basic survival technique — submission.

Now quite frightened, Methos lay passively, unresistingly accepting the frenzied attentions. Fingers dug into his flesh as MacLeod grabbed him, pulling him roughly about until he was propped up on his hands and knees. A hand forced his head down, shoving his face deep into the mattress. His knees were wedged apart as MacLeod settled his weight on Methos' calves, bruising them as he pinned the slighter man open before him. Fingers pushed damply in, and without preamble, pulled and stretched him wide. They were removed and quickly replaced by a hard, thick cock that burned as it dryly forced its way in. He groaned as he felt himself tear, his shoulders tensing and flexing from the pain — the only movement that remained to him.

He was given no time to adjust as the rigid shaft impaled him completely. He gasped at the enormity of the violation, his mind stuck on one incomprehensible thought — Duncan MacLeod, the man he trusted enough to love, was raping him. Taking what would have been freely offered — it just didn't make sense.

Strong hands firmly encircled his waist, stabilizing him as MacLeod pounded into him. The rhythm quickly escalated as his passage grew slicker, allowing for smoother withdrawals and thrusts. Beyond the pain, Methos was aware of MacLeod's building intensity as he grew frantic behind him. Hard and violent, MacLeod fucked him with a desperate urgency.

Finally, MacLeod began to spasm, crying out hoarsely. As the liquid warmth of his climax flooded deep into Methos, the ancient Immortal felt something give way at the base of his brain. He was overwhelmed by the sensation of Duncan MacLeod's personality surging through him, surrounding him, and damn near drowning him. The other man's presence was clear, sharper than it had felt immediately after the double Quickening, unmuddied by the raw power that accompanied it.

Methos reeled at the invasion. Where before there had only been himself, now he could feel Duncan's thoughts: _"Punish him, take him! More, MORE!!"_ Not only could he feel the painful grip of fingers digging into his hips, he also felt lean muscles, hard and tense beneath his hands. His backside was stretched and raw, but he could also feel himself throbbing and spent, enclosed in snug warmth.

He couldn't comprehend it all; the shock was too great, and he cried out, two voices with but one stricken cry.

Deep inside where their bodies met as one, blue sparks escaped from the torn, delicate tissues. The force quickly built into the intensity of a Quickening. Vertigo swung Methos about, and he suffered more disorientation as he felt energy separate from MacLeod — energy that carried the distinct signature of a third previously hidden personality: Kronos! Methos could feel Kronos in the power that pierced him now, both from within and without. The remainder of Kronos' life force surged angrily into him, joining with what had entered him previously from the strange, white coil that had snaked from MacLeod during the simultaneous Quickening. Held immobile by MacLeod's hands and cock, Methos strained to ride out the mental invaders. He was not surprised that somehow Kronos, ever the controller, had made use of the Highlander to secure his transference into Methos, becoming one with his favorite brother. It was typical that if such an incredible event could be managed, Kronos would choose to perform it in the most cruel and brutal way possible.

Fragments of Kronos and Duncan combined with Methos himself, granting the oldest Immortal profound insights as he struggled to keep his identity. He understood now that the holy spring had done more than simply bleed off the Dark Quickening's energies from Duncan MacLeod. It had also provided the Highlander with a permanent grounding; any energies too intense to be safely absorbed were shunted away. Kronos' immense power had quickly overflowed MacLeod, and it had searched for another receptacle to fill. Unfortunately, Methos had been nearby, and the rogue power had leapt into him.

Whether it was by Kronos' choice or not that he had finally come to rest within the man he loved to torment, Methos couldn't tell and didn't want to know. He was chilled enough by the knowledge that the man he both hated and sometimes loved was permanently inside him. He knew that if there was anyway for Kronos to exert himself, the specter of the leader of the Four Horsemen was sure to find it, and Methos fought down a surge of panic at the very possibility.

As the bizarre merging of identities disintegrated, so did MacLeod's strength, and he collapsed onto his side, a complete dead weight. Methos was pulled along with him until the hands that clutched him loosened and fell limply away.

Cautiously, Methos flexed, and he felt MacLeod's spent cock slide out of him. With a slow twist, he reached down and pulled his trousers back into place, freeing his legs in case running became an option. When his actions went unnoticed, he turned and carefully eased his hand over MacLeod's chest until he could feel the rapid thrumming of his heart. The Highlander lived, but was apparently insensible for the moment.

Methos took an uneven breath. His instincts screamed at him to run, but he knew better than to try. Being blind, deaf, and weaponless while attempting to flee the old, abandoned submarine base, with its flooded passages and crumbling walls, was insane. It became suicidal when he remembered Cassandra could still be in the area. No, running was not an option, and neither was fighting or avoidance. That left him with acquiescence, his least favorite survival technique. It was undeniably effective; doubly so, since he had long ago discovered within himself the capacity to cope with anything life threw at him. He wasn't proud of it, but it enabled him to live through things that would have driven others to rash and destructive acts.

Uneasily, he decided it would be safest to stay with MacLeod until the situation changed. If Kronos had precipitated the attack, and his old leader was now fully exorcised from MacLeod, the big Scot should awaken peacefully the next time. If it wasn't Kronos, but something else that had instigated MacLeod's uncharacteristic savagery, then it might be best if the Highlander woke to find a compliant and tractable Methos beside him. The ancient Immortal's past experiences had taught him that when he found himself powerless, it was better to meet violence and brutality with obedience and submission since it tended to lessen the force of the aggression. He would play along with whatever MacLeod desired until he could find an opportunity to leave — just as he had with Kronos two thousand years in the past.

Carefully, Methos eased into MacLeod's arms and very gently laid his head against the broad, bare chest. He could feel the great heart within beating steadily, as it had for the last four centuries. It saddened him to think he had found comfort in this very position just a few hours earlier. Even prior to that, resting like this had been a treat he had savored above all else; a quiet moment, when all that existed was himself and the deep, regular pulse of the man he loved.

Now, it had all changed, replaced by a grotesque travesty of what had been perfection. Kronos had somehow managed to spoil the tenuous relationship Methos had shared with MacLeod, desecrating their physical trust with this final act of violence.

Methos sighed and settled in closer, allowing himself a small bit of comfort from the thought that perhaps it wasn't truly permanent. Methos had lived far too long to simply give up on something because the timing wasn't right. No, he acknowledged it was his natural pessimism that made him fear that Duncan would never be his lover again. It was because he valued their friendship that he feared fate would take great pains to withhold it from him forever.

He shifted a little to ease a leg cramp. The ache in his backside was nearly gone thanks to his recuperative powers, but in its stead was a faint burning, a phantom sensation that recalled another rape not long ago. The scent of cayenne, curry, and other exotic spices drifted on the faint currents moving through the cavernous base, and it chilled Methos to his very soul. Even from beyond the grave Kronos was claiming him, and the ancient Immortal wondered if he would ever be free of the ghosts that haunted him.

* * * * *

The next time Methos awoke, it was naturally. He blinked at the bright light emanating from the bare electric bulb that was the room's sole source of illumination. He could see again. "Thank God," he murmured, and was doubly thankful when he found he could hear his own words.

"I take it that means you can see again?"

Methos froze, then sat up straight in bed. He stared expressionlessly across the room where MacLeod sat eating an apple scrounged from the food stores.

"And you can hear, too. Well, that's a relief." MacLeod's words were cool and distant.

A surreal wave of tactile memories flooded over Methos: hands spinning him around and forcing his head down until he lay flat against a cold, hard, steel platform. Pain, sharp yet achy, as his body was breached, and he yielded to another, unwilling but accepting — to Kronos…or to Duncan…? Was it real? Which was real? Had it even happened? The burning he felt deep inside, smoldering warmly throughout his lower abdomen, assured him it had, even as his mind tried to separate the details of the multiple events that were smashed haphazardly together.

Disoriented, his eyes locked with MacLeod's in shocked disbelief, stunned by what he thought he remembered. He became even more perplexed when the Highlander met his gaze unflinchingly.

"What?" MacLeod finally asked.

The bold gaze shook Methos' belief in himself; MacLeod was too fond of guilt to manage such a brazen reaction. Maybe it hadn't happened; maybe he'd hallucinated the whole attack from a devastating combination of remorse, grief, and guilt as a way to punish himself…and how would he know if he hadn't? Maybe it had happened, but MacLeod didn't remember it. Maybe he should just be blunt and ask MacLeod, 'Excuse me, but didn't you just rape me last night?' to confirm his suspicions.

Totally unnerved, he looked down. Placing his palms flat against his thighs, he braced his arms and let his head hang. Eyes closed, he tried to center himself, preferring the calming exercise to the flat out panic attack he knew was near. _Breathe._

Duncan moved noisily about the room. After a few moments, he said impatiently, "When you're finished there, we need to talk."

Methos gave a small snort of derision. " _Now_ you want to talk."

MacLeod was instantly beside him, grabbing his arm. "Yes, I do. What about the virus? What about Cassandra?"

A flash of fear shot through Methos when he felt MacLeod's demanding hand on his arm. When no other violence followed, Methos narrowed his eyes at the sheer effrontery and wrenched his arm away. "Don't!" he growled. Standing, he backed a few steps away, wrapping his arms tightly about himself. He needed distance and space; distance from MacLeod until he better understood how things lay between them, and the space to recover himself again. He stared back at MacLeod, his face as closed off as he could make it.

"What are you playing at now, Methos? Are you going to pretend none of this happened?"

"Strange. I was just wondering the same about you."

MacLeod stood and moved closer to Methos. "What about the virus?" The Scotsman was nothing if not persistent.

Methos sighed and grimaced, suddenly willing to do whatever was necessary to get MacLeod to leave him alone for a while. "Right. What if I collect all of the virus and reseal it in the vault? It can be ready for pick up tomorrow, and I'll leave it to you to choose whomever you think can be trusted with it. Will that satisfy you?"

"For now. What about…?"

Methos threw up an arm to ward off further questions. "MacLeod, nothing else really matters, does it? I'll dispose of the bodies and remove the equipment, or maybe I should just let in the Watchers and give them a few new bits for their garage sales, not to mention a couple of exciting entries for the Chronicles."

"This isn't funny, Methos."

"It wasn't meant to be." He stared searchingly at MacLeod. "Look; everything is temporary except for death, and the sad truth is I will withstand anything to avoid dying. You can never understand that. It is who I am, MacLeod. It isn't pretty, but it's my nature, and I can't change, not even for you."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah. That's it." When MacLeod continued to scowl at him, Methos took a step closer, needing the conversation to be over before it went even further downhill than it already had. The ancient Immortal no longer had the strength to deal with anything, let alone Duncan MacLeod. He felt incredibly threadbare and not very proud of himself; all he wanted to do was crawl into a hole, and the stubborn Highlander was the only thing that was keeping him from it.

"Either leave me be, or do what you must," he said, subdued and very tired.

They stared at each other, the moment stretching out eerily; this was the instant of parting, no matter which way it went.

Without breaking eye contact, MacLeod stepped to the table and picked up Methos' sword. Slowly, he walked back until he was an arm's length away. He hefted the weapon experimentally.

"You're pretty sure I won't do it," MacLeod stated neutrally, his face devoid of expression.

There was a small twitch at the corner of Methos' lip. How like the son of a chieftain that MacLeod still felt compelled to flash the sword of justice one last time before the face of wickedness. Nevertheless, Methos answered quietly. "I know you don't want to, and that means you won't — at least, not right now."

MacLeod glanced down at the blade, slowly angling it back and forth, letting the light catch and display the many places the cutting edge was scored and nicked from the desperate fighting in which it had recently taken part. Abruptly, he reversed the sword and offered it to Methos hilt first.

"This needs a new blade. It's a pity it was pitted against a heavy axe. It may never be the same."

"It was my choice; I will live with the consequences," Methos said, carefully reclaiming his weapon. He spared it a brief, critical appraisal before he lowered it to his side. "A bent blade is the least damage from all this."

MacLeod looked pensively at Methos. After a few moments, he said, "Old friends are the worst; they claim more of your soul."

MacLeod's words hit Methos, unexpectedly knocking the air from his lungs. Kronos, Silas; both dead, but each owning a piece of his soul, torn out of him and carried with them into whatever fate awaited beheaded Immortals.

"That sounds like a quote," Methos said, feeling uneasy and needing to fill the suddenly awkward void. What would MacLeod say if he knew Silas and Kronos had both been more than friends to Methos? His closeness with Silas was the kind born from the combination of affection, high emotions from a battle, and a bit of loneliness. Methos' relationship with Kronos had been incredibly deep and intricate, managing to encompass the full range of emotions of which Methos was capable.

"It is; remember Inspector Breslaw, the Interpol agent who was after Ingrid?"

Ingrid. Perfect. The Immortal Methos had chided MacLeod about judging; the Immortal MacLeod had killed because she would not stop assassinating hate–mongers and despots. MacLeod's old friend…now dead.

It was definitely time to leave.

"Yes, I remember." When MacLeod stayed quiet, Methos guided the conversation to what he now desperately wanted. "It's getting late; I have things to do."

MacLeod slowly nodded his head. "As do I." But when Methos turned to leave, MacLeod caught his arm. "Tomorrow, at the churchyard; meet me there at dusk. We still have things to discuss."

Methos felt himself caught and held by the Highlander's deep brown eyes and realized that no matter what had happened between them, he still would always give in to Duncan MacLeod. Despite what he had said earlier, Methos knew there was very little he could withhold from MacLeod. It was a fact he needed to hide from Duncan at all costs, or someday it would probably cost Methos his very life.

"Yes, all right," Methos agreed, subdued. Holy Ground; he didn't know whether to be relieved at the safe and neutral site, or to cry that they had come to needing that as a condition of their meeting.

Well, they were both alive, and that was more than could be said for many others. With life came hope — even if it took a few hundred years to resolve their problems.

Methos would wait; it was something at which he was very good.

END

**Author's Note:**

> This story was completely in the Spring of 1997 and was eventually picked up by the first issue of Futures Without End.


End file.
